“It won’t be that interesting,” Fergus said. “We’re going to finalize the wording on the contract. Why don’t you spend some time with Kate? I’m feeling guilty. You two haven’t exactly had a holiday here.”
“Dinnae fash yersel,” I told him, proud of my one Scottish phrase. I’d been waiting for a good time to say it.
Fergus chuckled. “Very well, lassie, I won’t worry about it.”
“Maybe Kate and I can go back to the east wing to collect that jewelry box,” Josh said. “And look for any other little bits and pieces we might want to rescue, if that’s all right.”
“Take anything you want. Just be careful,” Fergus begged as he handed over the key. “No falling through holes or down the stairs, please.”
As we stood up, Mrs. Dunsmore made one of her miraculously timed appearances to take away our plates. Josh and I loitered in the entry hall until Mr. Dunne arrived. Then, satisfied that Fergus had someone with him, we each took a torch from the hall cupboard and went upstairs. Josh unlocked the door, and we stepped into the east wing salon.
“Where do you want to start?” I asked.
“Might as well begin up here,” Josh said. While he gathered mementoes, I planned to keep searching for clues as to what had drawn Lucy and Duncan here. We separated, Josh circling the hole in the floor to reach the built-in cupboards at the far end. I decided to check the roll-top desk. It was striking, with marquetry inlays and brass drawer pulls that gleamed in the light of the torch. The light also exposed several deep scratches along the front of the roll-top cover, almost as though someone had tried to lever the top open. When I tried to raise the lid, it gave an inch or two and then stuck. I put the torch on the floor and pointed it at the desk, then, using two hands, pulled on the top. This time it moved about ten inches, partially exposing the writing surface inside before snagging again. My best effort only produced a squeal of recalcitrant wood.
Bending down, I shone the torch inside to see the surface partly covered by a mildewed green blotter, which held an antique ink pen with a bone handle. At the back was an array of small drawers and compartments. I reached my hand in as far as I could, but couldn’t open any of the drawers. Disappointed, I moved on. I could come back later with some lubricant, or maybe a pry bar, that would release the top and open up the interior.
Josh had been exploring the cupboards that flanked the fireplace. “Found these,” he said, holding up a pair of silver candlesticks. “I’d like to look around downstairs. Are you ready?”
I edged around the hole and followed him down the ramshackle stairway. When he disappeared into the bedroom where he’d seen the jewelry box he wanted for his mother, I stayed in the middle of the spacious hall, swinging my torch around to examine the space. On my previous visits, I hadn’t noticed many of the finer details, like the crystal doorknobs and silk wall coverings. The floor’s octagonal green and white tiles, though chipped in places and coated with dust, appeared to be well-preserved. I directed the light of the torch at the domed ceiling, where the painted flowers still bloomed and cherubs with pink cheeks fluttered on candy floss wings.
Choosing a bedroom at random, I stepped inside. Motes of dust danced in the light as I swung the torch around, looking for anything that might interest Josh. But the dresser surface was clear, and the door hung open on an empty armoire. About to leave, I noticed tracks on the dusty floor, leading from the door to the bed. I hadn’t walked in that far, so it wasn’t me who’d disturbed the dust. Slowly, I followed the trail of faint footprints to the end of the bed where the mattress sagged under a decaying yellow quilt. I doubted anyone would have come in here for a nap, so there had to be another reason. Bending down, I peeked under the bed, holding my breath, praying that a rat wouldn’t come hurtling out from under there. Instead, by the light of the torch, I saw a plastic bag. Grabbing a corner, I pulled it towards me. It was heavy and it took a couple of heaves to bring it out into the open.
The white dustbin bag was the only thing in the east wing that wasn’t covered in dust, which made me think it had been placed under the bed recently. I loosened the tie at the top and pulled the bag open. Inside was a stack of books. The title on the top one was embossed in flaking gold leaf. I couldn’t read it but the Cyrillic alphabet was unmistakable. With a yelp of excitement, I called Josh’s name.
He came running. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. But look what I found.”
Josh smiled when he saw the book and then he sneezed three times in a row. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, lifting the bag easily. “We’ll take this over to the library, and I’ll find Fergus to see if his meeting is over.”
Fifteen minutes later, we were all seated around the library coffee table, with Arbroath at Fergus’s feet. Josh lifted out the first book. It was thick, its tan leather cover water-spotted and darkened at the edges. With great care, he raised the cover. The frontispiece bore an engraving of a woman in an embroidered dress, with pearls around her neck and her hair piled high. Underneath was an inscription written in Russian with an ink pen.
“Can’t understand a word,” Josh commented, closing the book. He took another from the box and then another. By the time he’d finished, the table was covered with eleven leather-bound books, all with Russian titles embossed in peeling gold leaf.
“Is one of these the codex?” Fergus asked, leaning forward, running his fingers along the covers.
“I doubt it,” I said. “For one thing, these are what I’d think of as normal size, quite a bit larger than the small volume I saw in the vision. And there should be twelve books in total. We only have eleven. But we should check each one, to be sure.”
I turned the pages of the first book, which released a potent fragrance of dust and tobacco. The paper was fine, almost transparent, and filled with indecipherable type. As I expected, there were no drawings or diagrams. We gently leafed through each book. They were all similar, filled with dense text.
“So, who put the books under the bed?” Fergus asked. “And why?”
“Duncan,” I said.
“Remy,” Josh said at the same time. Fergus raised his brows.
“Duncan was searching the library, don’t forget,” I said. “If he knew about Anna’s crate of books, he’d recognize their significance— so he hid them.”
“But why? Why bother to move them?” Josh asked.
“Perhaps to confuse anyone else who might be looking for the codex or the egg or whatever he was really looking for.” Something struck me. “Perhaps he was trying to hide the evidence from Lucy. You know they seemed to have an odd relationship. A little combative. Maybe he’d decided to work alone, cut Lucy out of the deal. We know he needed money. If he’d worked out that the codex was originally hidden with a collection of Russian novels, then he would assume that Lucy, or perhaps Remy, would be able to figure it out too. By concealing the books, he’d muddy the trail.”
“That might have been what he was doing before he came to the party on Saturday,” Josh said. “Or it could have been Remy who hid them, for much the same reason, to hinder anyone else who was looking.”
“That’s true,” I agreed.
Arbroath snored softly. I wished I could sleep as easily as he did. My cumulative lack of sleep over the last five nights had fried my brain. Giving myself time to think, I stood and examined the bookshelves. “They were probably up there.” I pointed to the top shelf in the furthest corner, where gaps were visible between the books, as though someone had spread them out to hide the missing volumes. A few lay horizontally, taking up more space. The absence of books wouldn’t have been noticeable to a casual observer.
“Should we tell McMahon?” Josh asked.
Fergus grunted. “So someone moved a few books. That’s not a crime. I doubt Inspector McMahon would be particularly excited about it.”
“I think McMahon will be interested in everything that happened here this weekend,” Josh said.
I pushed the ladder to the place
where it seemed the books had been rearranged. From a high rung, I was able to look down on the surface of the shelf. Even the fastidious Mrs. Dunsmore didn’t come up here very often. There was a fine layer of dust on the shelf, dotted with fingerprints and streaks where books had been moved around.
“We should get the police to check for prints,” I said. “That would at least tell us who found the books and hid them.”
“Do we assume that whoever discovered them also found the codex?” Fergus asked. “Isn’t it likely that all twelve books were stored together?”
I came back down the ladder and went back to my seat. “If Duncan found the codex, then where is it?”
“It can’t have been in his room because the police have searched there already,” Josh pointed out. “If they’d found it, we’d know about it. If he put it somewhere unexpected, we may never find it.”
My temples throbbed, and I massaged them with my fingers. “That’s a depressing scenario.”
“And if Remy found the book, why didn’t he head for the hills with it instead of hanging around puncturing brake cables?” Fergus asked.
I picked a dog hair off my cardigan. “That’s a good point. The fact he stayed local makes me think he can’t be the one who discovered it. He’s probably hoping for another chance to poke around.”
Josh stood and wandered over to the drinks table to pour himself a glass of water. “Remy’s still my number one suspect for killing Duncan,” he said, coming back to his seat. “He had the most vested interest in finding the book. Think about it. He inadvertently sold that Fabergé egg for a pittance, then someone visits his shop and tells him about its connection to this priceless codex. Pierre told us Remy’s not very savvy or very motivated, but he was smart enough to plant Pierre in the castle, months before Duncan or Lucy got here. For him, it’s about more than the money. He wants to salvage his reputation as an antiques dealer too.”
“You have a point, but why would he kill Duncan?” Fergus asked.
“Maybe Duncan worked out who Remy really was and threatened to tell the police. Or Duncan found the book, and Remy tried to force him to disclose where he’d hidden it. They quarreled, and Duncan ended up dead. Remy had access, don’t forget. He was working in the kitchen until late that night.”
Fergus cradled his head in his hands for a moment. When he looked up, his face was creased with worry.
Josh leaned over to put his hand on his uncle’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. We should take a break from talking about all this. Anyway, I need to take a shower before we leave for the funeral.”
At the reminder of Nick’s funeral, Fergus got to his feet, grimacing as though his back hurt. “Me too. We can talk about this later.”
“DCI McMahon will work it out,” Josh said. “Try not to worry. He’ll catch Remy and stop him from doing whatever he intends to do next.”
“I’m not worried about Remy coming after me,” Fergus said. “I just wish to God I could have done something to save Duncan.”
Fergus might not be concerned about Remy, but I was. Fergus’s aura was moving fast. I prayed that Josh was right, that McMahon would find Remy Delacroix soon, before it was too late.
33
“The dog will be fine by himself for a few hours,” Josh told me, knotting his borrowed tie with a practiced hand.
“Yes, but Fergus is fretting. It’s only right that Mrs. Dunsmore and Lachlan want to go to Nick’s funeral to pay their respects. I’ll hang out with Arbroath and make some sandwiches for when you all get back.” I smoothed the lapels on his jacket. “It’s not really about the dog, although I’m happy to stay with him. Selfishly, I’d rather not go. You know funerals always remind me of Mum…”
The shock and grief of my mother’s death still lingered, and mentions of funerals always reminded me of those awful days when we struggled to come to terms with the loss.
“I don’t mind at all that you don’t want to come. I understand,” Josh said. “But I am worried about leaving you here alone.”
“It’s a castle. I’ll lock the doors, lower the portcullis, and prepare the vats of boiling oil. Even Attila the Hun wouldn’t stand a chance of getting in.”
Josh smiled and gave me a kiss. “We’ll come back the minute it’s over. Fergus won’t want to linger long.”
A few minutes later, I stood on the doorstep with Arbroath, watching the four of them drive off in Josh’s rental car. Fergus’s eyes had lit up when we’d told him I’d stay with the dog. “Thank you,” he said. “The old mutt’s not used to being alone. There’s always someone home with him. He needs to be let out frequently so he can tinkle.”
When the car turned out of the gate, I beckoned the dog inside, contemplating what to do next. First, I wanted to ring Alistair Ross to tell him about the Russian novels. I was very happy we’d found them, but it was all very frustrating. We’d come so close, but we still had no idea where the codex or the egg were. All we really had were theories— and perhaps we were all wrong. Maybe the story of the chest of books concealing the codex was a myth. Maybe the codex had never left Finland.
And yet, I mused, perhaps it had. The Russian books were here, in the castle. There was every reason to believe that the codex had been part of that chest of valuables entrusted by Anna Vyrubova to her friend. He’d sold that chest, or at least some of its contents, to Cyril Thorpe, a dealer with a dodgy reputation who was hanging around in Paris looking for bargains. After that, what happened? Lucy had told us Thorpe had sold a crate of books to Gordon MacKenna. Had the egg and the codex been in that crate? Strangely, Remy had only told Pierre about the codex, not the egg. I sat on the hall bench to think things through, leaning against the wood paneling. Arbroath settled in front of me, resting his huge, shaggy head on my knee.
After Gordon MacKenna had purchased the books from Thorpe in 1940, had he then carefully chosen a place in Castle Aiten to keep his new acquisitions? A place high on the library shelves, not noticeable to a casual observer, but obvious to himself? Or had he randomly assigned the books to storage on the only shelf that still had space? Did he realize the significance of the codex or had he regarded it as simply another book?
Arbroath moved his head, tapping his nose against my hand, asking to be petted. When I obediently stroked his ears, he closed his eyes in doggy bliss. I felt faintly envious. Any version of bliss seemed far away for me right now. Turning my mind back to the question of the books, I recalled Fergus saying that his grandfather had been an avid and knowledgeable collector. Even if he didn’t realize he had bought a famous codex, wouldn’t he have figured out that he’d acquired something very unusual?
Arbroath’s ears pricked and he shot towards the front door. Nervous, I followed him and checked that the door was locked, which it was. I hurried into the drawing room and peeked out of the window that had a line of sight to the entry steps. There was no one there.
“Silly Arbroath,” I told him. He blinked at me and lay down. Within seconds he was snoring. I perched on the arm of a sofa, and picked at a loose thread on my cardigan. Unraveling the history of the books might be very interesting, but not helpful in getting me any closer to saving Fergus. Much as I hated to admit it, it seemed likely that only the police could do that. They had the resources and the manpower. I trusted Inspector McMahon.
Wondering if there was any news yet on the hunt for Remy Delacroix, I moved to the phone to call McMahon. But then I remembered he planned to attend Nick’s funeral; I would just have to be patient for news from him. Instead, I rang Alistair Ross. When I told him there was no sign of the codex, he sounded as disappointed as we were, but asked if he could come over to look at the Russian books.
“Come whenever you like,” I said. “I’m here all afternoon. Oh, and come to the tradesman’s entrance at the back. I’ll be down in the kitchen.”
“I’ll pop by soon. I’m finishing a late lunch.”
Putting down the phone, I stood, gazing at Arbroath. “Want to help me make sandwiches?” I as
ked him.
We clattered down the back stairs into the kitchen, where I wandered around collecting ingredients. It was strange to be down there without Pierre or Mrs. Dunsmore. Or the police. Arbroath padded over to the back door and whined, reminding me of what Fergus had said about the dog needing regular loo breaks. I let him out, and he ambled off towards a cluster of bushes at the edge of the parking area. I was rummaging around in the butler’s pantry for bread when I heard Arbroath barking outside, probably demanding to be let back in.
“I’m coming,” I called, making note of the fact that I was talking to the dog out loud again, and headed back into the kitchen to let him in. Instead, at the door, stood Remy Delacroix. In shock, I dropped the bread and backed up towards the kitchen island. “What are you doing here?” I tried to keep my voice steady. Arbroath had stopped barking and was now sniffing Remy’s shoes.
Ignoring the dog, Remy took two steps inside, leaving the kitchen door open. Was it my imagination, or did he appear as shocked to see me as I was to see him?
“I thought you’d be at the funeral with everyone else,” he said.
“Funny, I thought you would be too.” I remembered what Inspector McMahon had said about killers sometimes turning up to their victims’ funerals.
Remy took another step towards me. Although not very muscular, he was tall. Clad head to toe in black, with dark, lank hair, he cut a menacing figure. I backed up again, sidling around the edge of the island.
“What do you want?” I asked.
I glanced towards the phone on the wall. It hung out of reach. I’d never get to it if Remy made a move. But he stayed where he was and held up both hands. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “But, as you’re here, you can help me. Then I’ll be on my way.”
“Why should I help you? You nearly killed me.”
Arbroath padded in, stopping once more to sniff at Remy’s black jeans and sneakers and was rewarded with a pat on the head.
“You’ve got nothing to lose,” Remy told me. “Give me thirty minutes without raising the alarm, and I’ll leave you in peace.”
The Complete Kate Benedict Cozy British Mysteries Page 111
